


putting up your armor when you leave

by partingxshot



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partingxshot/pseuds/partingxshot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock does not have a need for the belief personally, but he understands the human desire.</p><p>(It takes McCoy years to get him to have a drink.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been watching TOS, and have become that one obnoxious Spones shipper on your dash. I promise it was an accident.
> 
> This is going to be a spontaneously-updated multi-chapter thing based mainly around episodes and my thoughts surrounding them; "deleted scenes" and the like with a Spock/McCoy reading that actually does develop into something resembling a romantic plot. It is entirely for my own pleasure but you can come too.
> 
> Important notes: a). I have not yet finished the series, as I'm meandering pleasantly through the third season with no real rush. b). Anything I learn in the future contradicting my headcanons about McCoy's dad (based on DeForest Kelley's dad) I will conveniently manage to forget.

The planet’s atmosphere is noxious green beneath them, the shuttlecraft dipping too close to the eddying clouds. Spock knows, logically, that they have retained more members of their scientific party than they have lost. Spock also knows, logically, that this will not matter after their final orbit. His mission will be classified quite firmly as a failure.

The Galileo Seven waits to burn.

“Is there anything we can do?” McCoy asks from the seat behind him. His voice is calmer than Spock would have expected, given their situation. He hears the squeak of McCoy shifting his chair idly around its base, coupled with Mears’ harsh breathing and the pattern of Boma’s angry, unconscious assault on the shuttle wall with the heel of his foot.

“The Enterprise is surely on course for Makus Three by now,” he replies, and taps one long finger against the rigid armrest. Then he adds, “I, for one, do not believe in angels.”

He hears McCoy’s quiet exhale. 

Historical Vulcan mythology has never involved angel figures, even during the dark eras before the Time of Awakening. Spock learned of the legends and beliefs associated with them during his extensive study of Terran culture, and took note of their unique position in certain religious cultures: beings called in lieu of gods themselves in times of challenge or danger. Creatures, demigods in everything but name, that exist solely for the purpose of lauding their superiors and, depending on the source, protecting the mortals in their care. Created as a comforting notion to a primitive species that has since developed considerably, they represent both a medium through which well-intended wishes for safety can be expressed, and a genuine search for unexpected sources of salvation. 

Spock does not have a need for the belief personally, but he understands the human desire. 

The following silence is brief but nearly overwhelming. Then McCoy says: “Well, Mr. Spock, so ends your first command.”

A flash of irritation sweeps through him before he squashes it down; the doctor’s input is nothing short of insulting.

The patterns of the control panel lights take on a certain frantic quality that blinks insistently into his vision even as he lets his eyes lose focus. The shuttlecraft floor is no longer steady beneath his feet. For just one second he is back on the bridge of the _Enterprise,_ and McCoy is baiting him as usual.

“Yes…my first command.” 

The words wander over his tongue almost without him knowing. Perhaps the doctor is looking for some confirmation of the humanity in him. One last chance for victory before the engines catch and die (he imagines he can hear them choking), before they fall and the atmosphere burns them all alive together.

When he looks back on this sequence of events he has a hard time sorting out what happens next, because it’s then that the panic hits him, climbs the walls built by culture and ancestry and the blue eyes boring into his back full force. (They live, somehow. Spock saves them all.)

It doesn’t make up for the lives lost on the planet due to his own mishandling of command, but overall he has preserved more life than he has lost. Analyzing the results from an entirely logical standpoint, he would have been hard put to perform better in this specific situation with the set of skills and qualities that he possesses.

The doctor calls his last action a “gamble.” He also calls it “human.” His tone is almost warm.

 

“C’mon, ya hobgoblin, it’s not gonna kill you. Just take a seat.”

McCoy sometimes indulges in a modest alcoholic beverage after he is off-duty. Often he joins Scotty, though he does not try to match the volume of the engineer’s intake. He seems more of a social drinker, and Spock has noted his use of the bottle as an icebreaker, easing the nerves of new recruits or trying to get to know a difficult officer. Once, in a decision of questionable moral standing, he lured a stubborn crewmember suffering from a malignant cold strain into sickbay after he had so generously provided a couple of glasses to muddle his refusal. Crude, but ultimately effective.

Occasionally, in an apparent burst of goodwill, the doctor offers Spock a drink.

“As I have already informed you, my Vulcan heritage –”

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbles, “Cursed with eternal sobriety.” He sits the proffered glass back on the table, filled nearly to the brim. His own glass is nearly empty. “Well, might as well stop this one from going to waste.” He still seems amiable. Spock raises his right eyebrow just slightly. 

He has found it frustratingly difficult to track the doctor’s opinion of him at any given time. There is a particular pattern to their interactions, but he cannot determine each tipping point. McCoy begins cordial, even bordering on sociable. Then, invariably, Spock says something to displease him and the lines of his face all turn downwards at once. The volume of his voice nearly doubles, and the index finger of his left hand exhibits a faint twitch. Spock does not purposefully antagonize him, usually, but this result is unavoidable. He has found it more efficient not to attempt diversion.

They have obviously not yet reached this point, because McCoy absently presses his pinkie against the inside of the glass’s rim and says, “Did I ever tell you my papa’s a preacher?”

Spock lets a controlled expression of surprise pass over his features. “Not directly, no. Though I have briefed myself on your background as a senior officer.”

McCoy snorts and leans too far back in his chair, taking his glass with him. “That’s the problem with having everybody’s records on hand all the time. A man can’t get any privacy.”

Obviously the doctor is feeling expansive, which happens at inexplicable intervals. Spock taps a single finger against the opposite forearm, where they are crossed together tightly at the small of his back. “If that will be all, Doctor, I have a few biological samples in the lab that must be closely monitored, and I would like to double-check the Captain’s paperwork on the Galileo Seven incident before he retires.”

His mental processes are fast enough that he realizes his mistake and its consequences as he is still speaking. Were he human, he would have winced. 

McCoy turns away from him to set his empty glass on the table, but his lips turn upwards into an obtrusive smirk. “Well, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of sorting that whole mess out.” His tone is light, almost _gracefully_ implying the gloat. Then, because he is McCoy, he flings grace aside to hang the subject by the neck until dead. “You know that would have gone a hell of a lot better if you had taken some basic human emotion into account.”

“I believe,” Spock says, and very carefully does not so much as twitch, “that the mission would have been more successful should my inferiors have decided to put aside such unnecessary distractions in a time of crisis.” 

McCoy’s lip curls into something less satisfied, and Spock allows himself a breath. The doctor encircles the rim of Spock’s unused glass with the tips of his fingers, then draws it to his chest. “It must seem so easy for you, reverting to an unfeeling computer at a moment’s notice.”

“Invariably. If you will excuse me, Doctor.”

He nods and turns to leave; McCoy makes an affronted sound that he does not have the time to indulge. 

“I grew up on angels,” the doctor calls after him as the doors slide shut.

 

(Not long after, the hot scent of Vulcan soil still clinging red to his uniform and T’Pau’s blessing sparking uselessly against the fading hormones in his blood, Spock owes McCoy the Captain’s life. He does not pretend for a minute that he owes him his conscience, because this the doctor failed to set and mend.)


	2. Chapter 2

“-was just trying to be cordial. I know it’s not in his culture to socialize the same ways we do, but he’s half human. It would do him some good to sit back and spin a few yarns with a couple of acquaintances. Doesn’t have to be me.” 

And you were offended by his refusal.

“Suppose I was.”

Why, Doctor?

“Well I don’t _know._ He’s ruder than me extending the olive branch warrants, because he doesn’t have a speck of human compassion in him.”

Insufficient response. Next layer.

 

(On Vaal’s planet, poison plants come alive and rocks explode like the landmines of the old wars. Spock and Jim step away from the others, natural as anything, and McCoy can hear Spock laying out the long list of reasons why the death of the latest round of bright-eyed youngsters wasn’t the Captain’s fault. He pretends not to eavesdrop, but Spock has steered Jim away so deliberately that it’s hard not to try. 

“No one has ever stated that Starfleet duty was particularly safe. You’ve followed the correct and logical course, done everything a commander could do. Self-recriminations –”

Spock cuts himself off before McCoy can register why the words sits so ungraciously in the pit of his stomach. They are interrupted by the presence of their orange-skinned alien tail in all of his untested innocence, Jim hits him across the face, and somehow they move on to the village and a whole other host of problems. )

 

“-not in his culture to socialize the same ways we do, but he’s half human. It would do him some good to sit back and spin a few yarns with a couple of acquaintances. Doesn’t have to be me.” 

And you were offended by his refusal.

“Well, it was obnoxious. That’s his way. But trust me, that green-blood devil has done a lot more offensive things than miss out on a bottle, so in the long run it doesn’t –”

Insufficient response.

 

(Later, when the mess of Vaal’s planet put the lives of the entire crew of the _Enterprise_ in danger, McCoy doesn’t know any magic words to console his friend. He says “Jim” very softly, and then in his silence lets Kirk thunder on about all of his own doubts and failings. 

He pretends not to notice the deliberate way Spock moves behind them, catching every word. McCoy supposes it’s only fair, though the bastard’s probably judging his lack of input in trying to ease the Captain’s mind. Well he’ll just have to put up with it, because he needs to realize that not every problem in the minds of men can be logic’d away so easily.)

 

“-would do him some good to sit back and spin a few yarns with a couple of acquaintances. Doesn’t _have_ to be me. I suppose.” 

And you were offended by his refusal.

“Yes, goddammit, I was.”

Why, Doctor?

“Because it’s basic decency to _accept_ every once and awhile when somebody tries to treat you friendly! Because he’s antagonistic and incomprehensible and his refusal to understand us puts us in danger whenever he’s left in charge. Because the way he manages himself would be unhealthy by any standards I could impose, and he treats his human side like dirt. Because his beliefs are _anathema_ to mine.”

Insuf–

“Because it’s not _fair.”_

…Insufficient.

 

(“Partially due to recent events, I have realized that human guilt often cannot be assuaged by logic,” he tells McCoy, who leans too far back in his chair and taps surgeon-clean fingers against the table. Spock is wearing that slight elevation of his features that is apparently all he can spare to communicate disdain. McCoy fights down the reaction to start yelling, because it sounds like Spock is admitting defeat.

“Tell me something I don’t know. Or better yet, something new.” He pats the armrest of the chair beside him and Spock shakes his head. The brandy bottle is open and they have tried unsuccessfully to navigate this route before. McCoy snorts and doesn’t pretend it’s a sigh.

“Listen, Spock. Something you have to understand, is that human – human grief, and guilt, the strong stuff” – he takes an immodest gulp and his eyes slide shut for a moment as he exhales through his nose – “It’s not gonna get better with a couple of words. Not all the time. Hell, not even a little bit of the time. Jim was gonna feel guilty about those men no matter what you said.”

“Surely, explaining the nature of the situation and the impossibility of predicting–”

 _“No,”_ he replies, solid and sharp.)

 

And you were offended by his refusal.

“Yes, goddammit, I was.”

Why?

“Because I – ” 

Cool fingertips press urgently against his thoughts.

 _Why,_ Doctor?

“Because I was _offering.”_

 

(“A most unfavorable weakness,” Spock says, and inclines his head.

McCoy feels his eyes go big with accusation; he swirls the liquid in his glass, heavy amber and unclouded. “Well, what would you rather we do?” he hisses. “Walk around like machines, cold and unfeeling, as mistakes happen that we think we could have prevented? Because that might work for Vulcans, but–”

“Why bother consoling one another,” – commanding, because McCoy’s brow is knit over like he’s ready to expound – “if it is commonly acknowledged that this will not alter anyone’s state of mind?” 

The skin at the corners of McCoy’s eyes crinkles as his lids fall, eyes narrowed in concentration like he’s trying. Spock’s eyes are a very dark brown, but the rest of his lines are blurring strangely.

“For – for human beings, it’s not that we want to be told a solution all the time. And it’s not about providing one, either.” He is looking around Spock at the empty doorway, the harsher light of the hall spilling in. “It’s – you’ve got to let these things out. Let them expand and contract naturally, or. Or they’ll just keep growing and pop. You’ll pop.” He acknowledges Spock’s skeptical eyebrow with the down-draw of his own. “It’s basic psychology. Or a rough metaphor built for easy consumption by an abacus like yourself. There has to be an outlet.”

“ _Human_ psychology,” Spock reminds him, a bit too late compared to his usual quick reaction time. McCoy crosses his legs at the ankle, stretching them out under the table and out of sight. 

He makes the effort to physically wave the correction off. “Sit down and have a brandy.” The room is tilting unhealthily, but he doesn’t feel drunk. Spock’s face doesn’t exist when he looks away, rematerializing before he can catch it.

“Thank you for the invitation, but I am –”

“ _Dammit_ Spock!” He slams his hand down on the table as the room dissolves, stars outside burning into the meld points along the sweating skin of his forehead.)

 

_”Well come on, help me get him on the table! He’ll die without immediate treatment!”_

 

“I was offended because I was offering, and he’s refusing and I don’t understand it. We’re friends. We have to be, he asked me to come to Vulcan for his wedding. ‘Closest friends,’ that’s what he said. Is it so wrong to want to understand him better?”

There seems to be much about him that you do not understand.

“Tell me something I don’t know. Or better yet, something new.”

And yet you feel that – 

“And yet he’s _important,_ don’t you see? I can’t – there isn’t a way to put it into words, but –”

_“Shut up! I can save his life!”_

Alien skin burns against his face, awareness sliding in and out of sync with his vision. He is half-conscious of a pair of impassive irises in the burning steady shape of novae, motion too ancient and distant to follow but in a constant state of explosion all the same.

That will…be sufficient, Doctor.

With the cataclysmic force of a planet ripping itself out of orbit, the Spock of the mirror universe pulls his hand from McCoy’s face and – 

–they gasp, arrhythmic but still too close together, McCoy pressed against the wall for support as the full strength of his own thoughts rush back into him. Spock’s eyes (no, _not_ Spock, it isn’t Spock who had taken his wrist so firmly and grabbed hold of something in him that he doesn’t understand) are reflective. Almost pained. The lines of his face are impassive but worn, like a stone monument left for desert winds to carve away. His long fingers press delicately against the wall to either side of McCoy’s shoulders.

It takes a moment to remember whose breath is whose.

He has to go. He has to get to the transporter room and get out of this nightmare version of their ship and their universe. Jim and Uhura and Scotty are waiting, he needs –

McCoy’s legs give out beneath him and he falls into Wrong Spock’s arms. 

Through the hallways he tries to catch hold of his fleeting thoughts and memories, realizing that he can only detect a fraction of what Wrong Spock saw. He feels raw, dragged to the surface of himself, but blurred like a pretentious impressionist’s dream. He can barely walk on his own feet, and Wrong Spock’s strong clasping hand at his elbow does not lead him gently. 

Wrong Spock had been far too close, threatening to access his mind by force as something indefinable moved murkily into the pit of his stomach.

He recalls letting him in willingly. 

(They vacate an entire universe, but not before his molecules shift and invert.)


	3. Chapter 3

Spock advances his rook three spaces and up one level, positioning himself two moves away from check. This presumes that Kirk will move in a predictable fashion, which is not always the case. 

The Captain clicks his tongue, arms crossed casually over his chest as he leans back to survey the entire board. He has referred to this particular chair as his favorite, other than the command chair on the bridge. Spock gets the impression that Kirk thinks this commentary is somehow amusing, though he readily admits that he cannot see the humor. 

“You’re playing a tight game tonight,” Kirk says with a smile as he repositions his knight with an almost dismissive air. Spock suspects that this mannerism is a purposeful attempt to put him off his guard, if the Captain’s tactics on planetside missions are any indication. 

“I estimate that I am playing with my usual degree of skill, Captain. Unless you have found my other attempts lacking.”

Kirk laughs. “You don’t need to expect any hidden barbs in my compliments, Spock.”

Spock is, as always, gratified that Kirk can tell the difference between his attempts at competitive banter and genuine complaints. The two of them are incredibly in-tune, despite being the subjects of vastly different upbringings and philosophies. Spock often finds that the intricacies of his sharp retorts are lost on the other officers, flattened into simple hostility in their view, which is an honest pity. Kirk has tried to convince him to try other, politer wordings more common to the humans surrounding him, but Spock has found any attempt to do so more distracting and difficult than such an effort should warrant.

Spock moves his queen several squares to the left. “Forgive me; I’ve becoming accustomed to human backhandedness in the most benign of interactions.”

Kirk’s lips purse in an exaggerated “oh,” then he says, “Ah yes, so very…unlike Vulcan communication, which is naturally straight-forward and condescension-free.”

“Naturally.”

“Where _is_ the good doctor, anyway?”

Spock hesitates. “Presumably working tirelessly on his pet project, as he has been since his return from the mirror universe.”

For the past Earth week McCoy has been professedly busy with combating an outbreak of the common cold onboard. The doctor’s preoccupation with the disease is quite in-character; it is not odd for him to grumble about mankind’s inability to neutralize such a simple strain of illness to anyone who will listen.

Herein lies the peculiarity of the situation: Spock has not heard a word from the doctor about the common cold all week.

“That would explain it,” Kirk says with a brisk nod. “He hasn't been haunting the bridge lately.” 

“No, he hasn’t,” Spock carefully replies. He gives Kirk a very flat, steady look. 

The Captain only notices when he’s glanced up from the board. He does a double-take to focus on Spock’s face, and a frown creeps across his features. “Spock. What’s the matter?”

“I –” Jim is always disconcertingly direct with his concern. It puts Spock off-guard. “I cannot provide conclusive evidence that there is any problem.”

“And yet?” Jim prompts, too knowingly, placing his index finger on his own queen. He presses down lightly, and the tip disappears against his skin. 

Spock himself is not given to fidget, so he merely examines his own pieces without touch. “And yet I have formulated a theory that Doctor McCoy is trying, quite successfully, to avoid me.” The last words are spoken lightly, as though he is merely stating a curiosity. He looks to Jim, steadily as always. 

The Captain’s immediate response, as Spock predicted, is to dismiss his concerns. “Of course he isn’t, you know Bones, he’s just busy with –”

“Captain, if McCoy has not yet spoken to _you_ about his valiant efforts to destroy nasopharyngitis, he must be nearing a personal record.”

That gives him pause. He rocks the queen on its base, eyes still fixed on Spock’s face. Jim is very careful to look at Spock when they are talking. “The only reason we haven’t heard about his progress is that he hasn’t been on the bridge.”

“Precisely. He is aware that he can find me there.”

“Spock,” he smiles, “I didn’t take you as the self-centered type.”

Spock considers. He is unaware of how to communicate his concern to the Captain in a manner that preserves confidentiality. If the situation is anything like he suspects, privacy is a prerequisite. This is based on centuries of Vulcan law and custom, attempts to protect those made vulnerable against their will.

If his double has forcibly entered the doctor’s mind, logically it will not be his fault. But it will be his responsibility.

The thought disturbs him more than he is willing to admit.

“Perhaps if you were to require me to undergo a physical examination performed by the doctor, I could put any doubts to rest.” He would have the chance to guarantee to himself that Jim is right and nothing terrible has happened. 

And if Jim is wrong (Jim is sometimes wrong), perhaps he could help counteract any damage that occurred. This implies a great amount of emotional responsibility, and he is frustrated to feel himself recoil.

Jim moves his queen, slowly and grandly enough that Spock knows he is expecting an end to their game very soon. “If it would set your mind at rest, I’ll do it.” Kirk smiles up at Spock winningly. “Check.”

 

“What I don’t understand is why the hell the Captain thinks you need a physical. You’re not due for another month at the least.”

“I regret taking up your valuable time, Doctor.” Spock sits at the edge of a sickbay bed, still toes brushing the white-clean floor. McCoy rummages violently through his supplies, slamming cabinet doors with more force than has ever been necessary. 

“Well, good. I could be ridding this ship of that goddamned petty disease, you know that?” 

“I have been informed.” He watches McCoy carefully, taking in his somewhat stiff stride as he moves to the nearest prep counter, fiddling with the settings of his scanner. The doctor always retains tension around his shoulders and upper back, presumably the result of a long mission with full responsibility for the life of everyone onboard. Spock wonders if he carried himself any differently before he enrolled in Starfleet, when his feet were firmly planted on Terran soil and his claimed title of “old country doctor” still held some merit.

McCoy hasn’t met his eyes yet, so he adds, “Though I have not received any report of your progress. I would be interesting in looking over your work.”

“Why?” McCoy spits with surprising venom, whipping around to face him. “Here, why don’t you take over sickbay while you’re at it, if you think my work is so shoddy.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I did not mean to cause offense.”

“Then you should speak with a little more care for the effect of your words,” he bites, stomping over with his tricorder. He waves a small spinning wand over Spock’s chest with aggressive vigor. “I’m not going to find a blasted thing wrong with you and your obnoxious Vulcan physique.”

“Have I done something to anger you, Doctor?” he asks calmly, watching the top of McCoy’s brunette head bob around in front of him. If he continues this line of questioning, revealing nothing himself, eventually the doctor will snap. It is difficult to pry answers out of this very private man, and Spock has found that exploiting his lack of control may be the only technique he will ever learn. Kirk manages to decode him so _easily;_ he has a rapport with the doctor nearly comparable to his relationship with Spock. But to Spock, McCoy fluctuates, moving in and out of his understanding with the extremity of his emotional response. An enigma through sheer unpredictability, Spock cannot pin him down. 

McCoy’s hand slows and then pauses, the spinning silver device whirring in the silence. To Spock’s surprise, the doctor’s chin dips slightly. 

“Doctor?” he asks, his concern suddenly fresh and unavoidable in the primal pieces of his own mind. 

“No,” McCoy says, finally, and draws back to look at Spock’s face. Tension runs tightly around his eyes, and a small ironic smirk sits awkwardly on his lips. “Not you. You’re…” he takes a deep breath. “Believe me, you haven’t done any more than the usual.” 

He is very carefully meeting Spock’s eyes this time. Usually they are best at eye contact when McCoy is railing against some insensitive comment he has made, and his lids widen until Spock can see more white than powder blue. 

“If you will permit me, Doctor,” Spock says, as serenely and detachedly as he is capable. He is annoyed by his own repetition of the title, but at least it gives him something to say. “May I explain my educated guess as to the reason for your avoidance of me?”

McCoy winces at the accusation, though it is not stated as such. “Go ‘head. It’s not like this can get any stranger for me.” Spock is puzzled; yet another response that he cannot make himself understand. He feels a surprising twist in his core and sets the unwanted emotion aside for meditation. 

“During the mirror universe incident, you made individual contact with my double.” He resists the urge to give his counterpart some other title. Referring to him “the first officer” would create some distance, lessen the immediacy. It would also defeat the purpose.

McCoy frowns, but the expression is natural on his face. “That makes it sound purposeful. The others went ahead – ”

“And you stayed behind to insure my double’s survival.”

McCoy looks even more defensive than before. “Well I wasn’t about to just leave him there, that’s Vulcan thinking, not –”

“You are deflecting, Doctor.”

“No, I’m giving a statement of fact!” he snaps, and Spock forces himself not to respond.

“You stayed behind, and were alone with the double for at least five minutes, according to the Captain’s woefully inexact report.”

“Would you just get to the point, Spock?” McCoy’s breathing seems to have elevated. His hands have curled into fists, one at his side and the other gripping the edge of Spock’s bed. He is still meeting Spock’s gaze, but with a purposeful, defiant determination that Spock regards as almost as suspicious as skittishness would be.

“I believe a mind-meld was initiated –”

Apparently McCoy has been holding his breath, because he lets it out in a rush. His fingers loosen their grip, then drop, and his head bobs in confirmation. There is a brief silence, as the doctor gathers his words. Spock waits. 

“Yes,” he says, forcefully. “Can’t you understand why it might be a little too awkward to see you right now?”

Spock blinks once. “Awkward” is not the word he was expecting. The trauma of a forced meld can have diverse effects, especially on a member of another species, but “awkward” seems far too light a condemnation. 

McCoy seems to be waiting for him to say something, expression re-hardening around the confession.

Finally he manages, “You should seek out proper healing. I could direct you –”

“I’m not that fragile!”

“Doctor, a forced mind meld can be a highly damaging experience.”

The doctor stops, his next denial caught in his throat. He mouths the word “forced,” and something like understanding blossoms on his features before he hides it away just as quickly. 

“Now you listen here, I don’t need to see any Vulcan shrink.”

“Your personal pride is in direct opposition to your personal good. You are aware that the crime perpetrated against you is punished with utmost severity on Vulcan?”

“Dammit Spock, this isn’t about pride!” He slams both hands back down on the bed, one on each side of Spock’s legs. “It’s – if you’d –” Spock watches in fascination as McCoy’s face moves rapidly through a variety of expressions. Suddenly he is very certain that he does not have the whole story.

“I would like to avoid miscommunication,” he says, something prickling down his spine. “What exactly occurred–”

“He looked too damn much like you! How was I _supposed_ to react?” McCoy removes his hands, pushing himself off the bed to stand firmly on his own feet. “He’s lyin’ there, dying, and everybody else is just rushing away to go home and he’s just _lyin’_ there.” He begins to pace, casting agitated glances at Spock over his shoulder. “And I know you’re gonna tell me how goddamn illogical I was being, because I know that it wasn’t _really_ my friend I was seeing. Even Jim figured that out. Figured that it wasn’t you. But I’m not Jim. I’ve never had the…the _fortitude._ And then you – _he_ was so confused about us sparing him, and I knew everything he wanted to know, and it happened before I could think.” He glares at Spock, aggression written into every inch of his features. “Off-kilter and without any concept of trust. Was I supposed to pretend I could stop seein’ him as my friend and leave him like that?”

For a moment, Spock is completely at a loss. Then the words come too quickly, and he only loosens his own grip on the bed’s edge when he hears the strained metal creaking. “Do you mean to tell me, Doctor, that your meld with my double was consensual?” 

“Of course!” McCoy’s response is indignant. “You wouldn’t–” He freezes, lips forming around one word, then another, before finally grimacing. “Alright, _you_ wouldn’t. Maybe he would. I don’t know. He wanted the information, and I did think, for a second–”

He stops to swallow. Only now does he drop his gaze. “Look, Spock, I know that in your culture it’s considered either an intimate act or…I don’t know, something you do when your other options have all run out. I wasn’t tryin’ to be – anyway, it wasn’t forced, and I didn’t just…let him in because he would have come in anyway, or anything like that. I don’t understand all of the cultural implications of it, everything is so damn _complicated_ in your rituals, so I didn’t want to…I think I’ve overstepped.”

Spock’s first reaction is a shameful wave of relief. The doctor is not lying. He is mentally whole. He will not have to add this burden of guilt to his (rather more logical) pile. He has not harmed anyone in this way, and hopes he never will.

This is followed by a more pressing confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your reaction. What would you have overstepped?”

“Well you’re a private people,” the doctor says, his tone unexpectedly balanced. “I thought the meld was for people you trusted more ‘n anything. _Lovers,_ and the like.” He trips over the word, and his cheeks flush almost angrily. “And I know it wasn’t – _you,_ really, but I did more than just…let it happen.” He gives Spock a hopeless sort of shrug. “I don’t know why, just in the moment it seemed like the right decision. It wasn’t fear or anything, I promise. I’m okay.”

Spock takes a moment to gather his thoughts. This is a most unexpected turnout, and he has not prepared the proper response. He settles on, “The meld is not reserved for lovers. I am relieved that you are well,” and hates the abruptness of each word. Curiously, he feels they are insufficient, though they have conveyed precisely what he was trying to say.

He doesn’t know where to go from there. If he had Kirk’s tongue, he could find a way to tie this all together neatly and peaceably, with added metaphorical flourish for good measure. As for himself, he feels unusually out of his depth.

“Oh,” McCoy says. “Well.”

They watch each other for a moment, sizing one another up. Spock senses that they have reached no real understanding, and he is once again faced by the disheartening impression that they never will. He does not know what to say to lessen the tension in the room, nor does he have a proper response for McCoy’s impassioned assertion of their friendship. 

Suddenly all he wants is to meditate in the privacy of his quarters. He refuses to label the sensation as “panic.”

McCoy also feels the weight of the room, judging by his fidgeting. When he finally croaks out a “Spock,” they are both relieved to hear the intercom.

_Mr. Spock to the bridge. We’ve received a distress call from System L-370._

Spock stands quickly, smoothing down the folds of his uniform. “Can I expect a clean bill of health, Doctor?”

“We’ve barely started,” McCoy grumbles, apparently forgetting his original objections in his rush to seize on the distraction. An incomprehensible human being. “But it’s not like I’ll find anything. ‘Peak physical condition,’ and I’m sure you’ll lord it over all of us humble humans as usual.”

“Thank you,” he says with a brisk nod.

If Spock hesitates at the door for a moment longer than usual, McCoy doesn’t mention it.

“Awkward” is, on second thought, a perfectly adequate term.

 

(Later:

 _“Spock! Do something!”_ McCoy shouts, all phasers and firebrands and loyalty to the Captain while the Commodore sails them slowly, doggedly into the mouth of the doomsday machine and Spock stands at bone-bowed, breathing attention bound by bureaucracy and watches a premonition of suicide. In that moment he is positive that McCoy hates him.

He remembers McCoy’s brutal willingness to shatter ancient custom to avert the disaster of his pon farr, using modern medicine to fake the Captain’s death and save him from Spock’s banal nature. 

The doctor cheats. Spock cannot.)


	4. Chapter 4

The ambassadors onboard the _Enterprise_ don’t constitute a crowd, given the size of the ship, but it feels that way with the rush of people in and out of sickbay for standard inoculations and the constant talk about strained relationships between individual planets. This or that representative has to be hosted in a room diametrically opposed to their uneasy ally; all equipment has to be sanitized beyond reason to appease a particular culture’s aversion to the touch of another. McCoy already feels tired and tense, and resents the way his staff seems entertained by the gossip.

“You’d think Federation ambassadors would be better at keeping a calm climate,” he grouses as he preps the hypo. “No offense,” he adds lamely with a nod of acknowledgement to his latest patient. 

She chuckles; the sound is restrained but genuine.

On first sight, Lady Amanda looks like the type of lady who spoils her nieces and nephews rotten. She has welcoming blue-gray eyes shaded with a brush of light makeup, and her pursed lips host a habitual knowing smile. McCoy finds himself liking her instantly, which is a lot more than could be said for his original impression of her son.

“It is true that the situation is tenser than we had hoped. But culture clash is sometimes a difficult thing to overcome, even when it’s approached with the utmost logic.”

“It’s actually kinda reassuring to hear you say that.”

“Oh, don’t mistake me for a critic of Vulcan teachings, Doctor. On the whole I find them extremely liberating.”

McCoy isn’t sure what to make of that. Amanda is undeniably human, moves and looks and talks like one, but she does seem to value Vulcan ways of thinking above others. Still, it sets him at ease to hear her admit the existence of problems that logic can’t solve. For not the first time he tries to picture this woman raising Spock and ultimately fails. Her husband, on the other hand, is all Vulcan. Unbendingly formal, even as he was receiving his own injection. Probably impossible to know, and he’s not sure how Amanda did it. 

He had asked Spock to show him the Vulcan salute as Sarek disembarked. Figured it was a good idea, to show respect for the culture like that. No matter what Spock may think, he’s not ignorant of basic interspecies politeness. (It didn’t hurt to _show_ Spock that by asking, either.)

He holds the hypo up to the finely-spun fabric covering her bicep, and settles on “Well, I guess to each their own. This won’t sting.”

Amanda takes the injection without flinching. “You don’t seem entirely convinced, Doctor.” He finds her tone casually defensive, covering a topic she has no doubt debated many times before, but she doesn’t seem offended. 

“Well. I mean no offense to you and yours, but I’ve always been more of a believer in emotions.” 

“Most humans are,” she acknowledges serenely.

“I’m probably more…insistent on it than most. I, uh. Your son and I are on pretty much opposing wavelengths. I’m…it’s just frustrating sometimes, when he refuses to see things in a human light.” He realizes as he talks that this is not the direction he had meant to take this conversation, so he hurriedly adds, “Not that we aren’t good – friends. I respect his way of life, but sometimes it’s just…” he smiles, “This is getting embarrassing. Here I am stuttering all over the place. I hope I haven’t been rude.”

Amanda is listening politely, and it strikes him that there is no judgment in her face. “It’s quite understandable, Doctor. Adjusting was difficult for me, as well. You have to resist the urge to try and change their entire cultural outlook. It should be obvious, of course, especially for those of us who travel; we interact with such different and unique species on a regular basis. But something in us still wants to…convert them, I suppose, even if we know better. It can’t be done.” She fixes him with her calm gaze and McCoy remembers that this is a mother defending her son. 

“But,” she adds, “it helps to remember that the Vulcan preoccupation with logic doesn’t exempt them from having a softer side.” She makes a show of covering her mouth with her hand, eyes shifting as if to imply she’s said too much. It’s honestly adorable.

“Well you’re a sweet lady, and I wish you all the luck in the galaxy with your Vulcan.” 

“And I yours,” she says, getting to her feet. 

For one disorienting moment McCoy thinks she’s implying something. But she’s already moved on, walking with innate dignity to the sliding doorway. Maybe his impression of her as the lax auntie is off the mark. She is far from cold, but she does retain something of Vulcan in the way she clasps her hands in front of her stomach and moves with proud separation from her surroundings. There is a stillness in her stride.

The combination is odd. Like cultural compromise incarnate. 

What’s odder is how much he still likes her. He shakes his head and asks Nurse Chapel to send for the next round of dignitaries. Her gaze hovers on his rueful smile, but being Christine, she moves on to finish her assorted duties before coming back for casual conversation. A real life saver, that one.

Lady Amanda had only been responding to his blundering talk about his disagreements with her son. She was just returning his parting words and tying their conversation up nicely. It probably says a lot about the kind of stress McCoy’s been under that his immediate reaction was to suspect her of trying to play matchmaker.

No, that’s a lie and he knows it. This isn’t about the stress, at least not the type springing from attempts to corral wayward ambassadors. This has a lot more to do with Spock himself.

(No, that’s a lie and he knows it. It isn’t Spock that’s left him jittery and dark-warm all through. Not _this_ Spock, but a long hand clamped on his wrist and pinning him down like kids did to the moths along Kettle Creek when he was coming up.)

He finishes the inoculations in the last hour before the reception, delayed by a heated argument in the corridor and some interesting maneuvering around the Axanar ambassador’s allergies. The brief good mood Lady Amanda had brought with her has dissipated, leaving him with the same vague sense of foreboding compounded by the pressure of a thought that he has been trying to avoid for weeks.

He had not been lying to Spock. It’s not healthy to still be dwelling on this, but he had _not_ been lying to Spock. The meld was consensual. His embarrassment at the fact had also been genuine, but he highly doubts he explained in a way that a near-machine could understand. 

It’s just, Wrong Spock went digging. Days afterwards, when he saw Jim prop his chin in his palm just so, or heard a snatch of some tune he knew Uhura liked to sing, he would be hit by a wave of self-awareness so acute that it felt like reading his own mind. Things he appreciated about people, or hated; what clicked and what didn’t. The way his conversations with Scotty slid around based on alcohol content, or exactly how proud he was that Chekov was picking up on emergency field medical procedure so fast. Each quick look at a friend was a trigger; some frightening floodgate opened up and floored him with emotional response fixated on each individual, there and gone in a disorienting flash. This tapered off after a week or so, but for a time it had almost hurt to see certain people. Hyperawareness of his own interpersonal links brought more questions than answers.

He doesn’t remember too much about the meld, but he’s spent enough time lying back in his quarters pretending not to be mulling it over that he thinks he has it figured out. Wrong Spock went specifically for McCoy’s memories of the captain, the crew, and Spock himself. His relationships were slammed hardest of all, every last facet left raw and exposed. Wrong Spock had wanted to know about trust, so McCoy handed it to him. Every bitter thought he had about the crew, mixed up with the brightest shining moments he had ever seen. Every insult he had hurled at Spock and every time his breath caught when he thought him in danger. 

And those tunneling brown eyes, sharper now in his memory like a suddenly-remembered dream, had eaten it up with a voracious hunger that left McCoy plucked clean and spinning. A messy, greedy transfer that still tingles down his spine when he lets it.

He is the only person to realize how lonely that Spock was. And that thought pushes his ribcage in against his heart for reasons he doesn’t completely understand.

Those reasons are possibly the second half of the problem, so it’s probably better to not think about them too hard.

He changes back into that goddamn stiff dress uniform from where he had flung it unceremoniously over his office chair. What he’d really like is a good, solid meal, but for now he has to wander around a room of politicians grazing on exotic fruits and appetizers.

As he leaves sickbay, he finds Spock going the same direction.

McCoy only hesitates for a moment before falling in step with him. “So, how does it feel having your parents around?” he asks, clasping his hands behind his back in a manner that mirrors Spock’s posture. He is genuinely curious, based on Spock’s exchange with his father. There is something determinedly unhealthy about their interactions, by god, and no amount of Vulcan blathering about logic and restraint can make that stop being true.

“No different than usual,” Spock says without inflection. McCoy rolls his eyes, a familiar annoyance jabbing him in the side. 

“It’s not a crime to like seein’ your family, you know.” Maybe, if he’s lucky, Spock will better explain the source of the rift with his father, so that their interactions can start making sense.

“My parents are here on official business. It would hardly be logical to take up their time.” 

“Spock –” he sighs, then stops and shakes his head. “Oh, forget it. I’m never gonna get you to admit anything.”

He feels rather than sees Spock’s quick, probing look. 

Maybe Amanda is right about all this. He’s never going to be able to change the Vulcan obsession with logic, no matter how unhealthy it seems. Maybe he and Spock can agree to disagree, once and for all. It might bring about more direct communication, which if he’s being honest with himself he recognizes that they need, especially since the mirror universe. 

Maybe being direct about all this, the meld aftereffects and the miniature crisis they had lead to, will actually help. Then he can admit his own thoughts to himself, too. Logic isn’t so hard. 

“You know, everyone has different ideas about their folks,” he concedes as a peace offering. “I don’t understand you or your way of treating them, but there you go.”

Spock actually looks unsure of what to say next. McCoy relishes the thought that he may have startled him into silence through sheer agreeability. 

“Thank you, Doctor,” he says finally, then ruins it with sarcasm: “I’m glad that the manner in which my family conducts personal relationships has obtained your approval.”

“Oh, for the love of –”

The doors slide open, and the two of them go diplomatically silent as they step into the reception, McCoy seething all over again. That’s what he gets for trying to be understanding.

(It might be with a little bit of vindictive joy that he asks Amanda about Spock’s childhood. _Teddy bear_ becomes the most beautiful phrase ever to exist in the Standard language.)

 

Maybe, McCoy reasons as the reception draws to a close, the secret thing in his chest that woke up when Wrong Spock had him doesn’t have to immediately go back and lie down quietly. Spock was defensive about his pet sehlat, but he had _had_ one. Probably loved it, judging by Amanda’s tone. He’s not unreachable. Maybe understanding him isn’t a completely unrealistic goal, no matter how frustrating it is that every time he tries to build a bridge he comes up against a highly sardonic wall.

And even if those lurking _other_ thoughts never come to fruition, it would not be bad to say that he actually understands one of his closest friends. That he can use that label without hesitance. 

(Never mind that Wrong Spock had pressed so closely, never mind the sharp shadowed thoughts that exploded behind his eyes days later whenever he looked at his own Spock. Never mind the way the meld pushed their unsettled, unbalanced, _engaging_ relationship to the forefront of his mind until it was inescapable and he couldn’t stop noticing the way Spock quirked his head or, heaven help him, the cling of his uniform across his chest.)

Maybe, he figures, he can try again to invite Spock for a drink. He’ll probably say no, but he’s running out of other ways to find an excuse for cordial conversation without the both of them getting offended. Maybe he can be direct about all of this after all. Logical.

Amanda is human, but she manages alright. Maybe maybe.

Then everything goes to hell.

An ambassador is murdered and Sarek is dying. At first Spock is willing to risk his life for his father, and McCoy can work with that. He drops everything to help, offering his cautions and advice and research. The two of them look over an experimental procedure performed on a Rigelian and McCoy refuses to replicate it, knowing full well that his refusal will not stand for long. Risking yourself for someone you love is something he understands. _(Maybe maybe maybe.)_

Then Kirk gets himself shot and Spock proves himself a coldblooded machine who would let his own father die. McCoy cannot comprehend the enormity of the decision; it rotates slowly in his head, too big for him to see the shape of it. (It hurts that he can’t see it, because it resonates unpleasantly with a decision he himself made, long ago, without being at all the same.)

There may have been an intense mental struggle involved in the decision, but McCoy does not see it. All he can see is the speed with which Spock declares that his own father’s life is worth less than Starfleet regulations. 

He sees Amanda’s pain, the way the cold words of her son tear into her unguarded features as she realizes her husband would do exactly the same. 

When they finally trick Spock into letting McCoy perform the operation, he relishes in Nurse Chapel’s quick decision to sedate him rather than let him try to stand. She is a woman of compassion and intuition, and she watches McCoy carefully as his steady hands work against time and the rocking of the blasted ship. Sometimes he wonders if she understands him even better than she lets on. 

He doesn’t have the time to yell like he wants to, shake some sense into an unfeeling bastard ruled by frigid reason. The lives of both Spock and his father are in his hands, and he has a lot of work to do. 

It’s safe to say, though, that all “maybes” are off the table. 

Any heavy-sweet thoughts about the way his pulse climbed with each small glance at Spock the week after the meld should be laid to rest as soon as possible. Amanda looked too devastated, standing there listening to her son accept the possibility of patricide. Maybe she thinks she and Sarek are alright, but her expression is seared into McCoy’s consciousness, hovering over him as he restores her husband’s heart.

Culture clash. Hard to overcome, even with the utmost logic. 

When the patients are both awake, McCoy makes his peace with Spock by ribbing him about keeping quiet in the sickbay, but the way he and Sarek dismiss Amanda’s emotions right in front of her leaves him cold. 

He isn’t even angry anymore. He just feels tired. Spock is his friend, but he will probably never understand him. 

(Succumbing to anything else is completely out of the question.)


End file.
